'I was referring to religion.'
'I know a few gods in these parts, if that's what you mean.'
Oats sighed. 'Many people find faith a great solace,' he said. He wished he was one of them.
'Good.'
'Really? Somehow I thought you'd argue.'
'It's not my place to tell 'em what to believe, if they act decent.'
'But it's not something that you feel drawn to, perhaps, in the darker hours?'
'No. I've already got a hot water bottle.'
The wowhawk fluttered its wings. Oats stared into the damp, dark mist. Suddenly he was angry.
'And that's what you think religion is, is it?' he said, trying to keep his temper.
'I gen'rally don't think about it at all,' said the voice behind him.
It sounded fainter. He felt Granny clutch his arm to steady herself...
'Are you all right?' he said.
'I wish this creature would go faster... I ain't entirely myself.'
'We could stop for a rest.'
'No! Not far now! Oh, I've been so stupid...'
The thunder grumbled. He felt her grip lessen, and heard her hit the ground.
Oats leapt down. Granny Weatherwax was lying awkwardly on the moss, her eyes closed. He took her wrist. There was a pulse there, but it was horribly weak. She felt icy cold.
When he patted her face she opened her eyes.
'If you raise the subject of religion at this point,' she wheezed, 'I'll give you such a hidin'...' Her eyes shut again.
Oats sat down to get his breath back. Icy cold... yes, there was something cold about all of her, as though she always pushed heat away. Any kind of warmth.
He heard the sound of the horse again, and the faint jingle of a harness. It stopped a little way away.
'Hello?' said Oats, standing up. He strained to see the rider in the darkness, but there was just a dim shape further along the track.
'Are you following us? Hello?'
He took a few steps and made out the horse, head bowed against the rain. The rider was just a darker shadow in the night. Suddenly awash with dread, Oats ran and slithered back to Granny's silent form. He struggled out of his drenched coat and put it over her, for whatever good that would do, and looked around desperately for anything that could make a fire. Fire, that was the thing. It brought life and drove away the darkness.
But the trees were tall firs, dripping wet with dank bracken underneath among the black trunks. There was nothing that would burn here.
He fished hurriedly in his pocket and found a waxed box with his last few matches in it. Even a few dry twigs or a tuft of grass would do, anything that'd dry out another handful of twigs...
Rain oozed through his shirt. The air was full of water.
Oats hunched over so that his hat kept the drips off, and pulled out the Book of Om for the comfort that it brought. In times of trouble, Om would surely show the way
... I've already got a hot water bottle...